


Not Like The Others

by likehandlingroses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20639891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likehandlingroses/pseuds/likehandlingroses
Summary: Ever since he was young, Viktor has dreamed of becoming an international Quidditch star. Everyone tells him he can do it...if he gives up his dreams of ever being free to love who he chooses.





	Not Like The Others

**1992**

If he’d known that having a talent for Seeking would involve talking to so many strangers, Viktor might not have bothered with the sport. 

“He’s incredibly clever, just so astute about everything...he’s just shy, and we worry,” he hears his mother whisper to the new stranger they’ve invited over today. 

“More people in the public eye than you’d think are shy...that’s why I’m here,” the stranger says. 

Marko Kovachev. A press manager. Viktor knows he’ll hate this stranger more than any of the rest of them. The others, at least--scouts and team managers and representatives of the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee--would eventually end their line of questioning and ask to see him fly. 

Viktor suspects Kovachev doesn’t much care how he flies. 

“Do you know why your parents hired me, Viktor?” Kovachev asks as Viktor fiddles with the bent bottle cap of his drink. His parents have left him alone with Kovachev, to “start things off.” 

“To make sure I say the right things.” 

“That doesn’t impress you, does it?” Kovachev smiles. He’s got perfect teeth, but there’s a narrowness in his eyes that Viktor doesn’t like. He wonders if he should bother telling his parents...most of the time, they don’t seem to care about Viktor noticing things that aren’t Snitches. 

“You think you can talk for yourself...and you will,” Kovachev continues. “But everyone in the public eye has help doing that.”

“I don’t see why it matters,” Viktor grumbles. “I just want to play Quidditch. I don’t have to talk for that.” 

Kovachev sits forward in his seat, his eyes glinting with excitement.

“Do you understand what’s happening to you right now, in this moment? You’re becoming a star. Fifteen year olds aren’t scouted by international teams. It doesn’t happen, never. Except now you’re doing it.” 

Viktor can tell he’s been waiting to give this speech all afternoon. His enthusiasm is rehearsed, each lift in his voice carefully placed. 

“Give it a year: the whole world will know your name,” Kovachev continues. “In a few years, when you play with Bulgaria--and you will!--the whole world will remember it always. So you need to think now about what they’ll remember.”

“I want to win the World Cup, that’s all,” Viktor says. 

“Lots of people win the World Cup…” Kovachev scoffs. “It’s more than that. It’s about what you represent, what you become in people’s minds. When people say your name, who do they see?”

In spite of himself, Viktor imagines it: being seen as exactly who he’d like to be. Not just on the Quidditch pitch, but everywhere. Every little thing, carefully placed and maintained and controlled, so that the picture they formed was undeniably beautiful.

“That’s what we work on together...how to make that star shine as bright as it can,” Kovachev says. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Viktor admits. 

“Good.” Kovachev sits back, surveying Viktor. “Now...why don’t you tell me about Gavrail Hristov?”

Kovachev is still smiling, and that narrowness in his eyes turns nightmarish as Viktor feels his heart thudding in his chest. 

He couldn’t know. He couldn’t. Viktor hadn’t told anyone, he hadn’t ever breathed so much as a word... 

“From school?” he manages, stalling. He can’t seem to get enough air, and Kovachev is reaching into the pocket of his robes.

He places the pile of letters in front of Viktor, keeping two fingers atop the pile. Viktor can see the small, uneven lines of writing, with stars sketched in the margins, and his heart sinks. 

They’re letters from Gavrail. Long letters written over the course of day-long train rides to see his father. Letters that tell Viktor how worried he is about meeting his father’s new girlfriend, how happy he is that Viktor has been scouted. Letters that say how much he misses Viktor, how he thinks of him all the time. Letters that end with musings on how fortunate Gavrail is to dream of Viktor and know that--come next fall--he won’t have to dream about kissing him anymore. 

Letters that Viktor has kept hidden under his bed out of fear. 

“Those are mine!” Viktor shouts.

“Not anymore they aren’t.” Kovachev keeps his hand on the letters. “And if I were the sort of person who sold private information for money...they’d be everyone’s. Do we want that?”

“Give them to me!” Viktor stands in his chair so quickly that it nearly falls over. “You had no right to take them!”

Kovachev looks unbothered. 

“Do people at school know?” he says. His stillness unnerves Viktor, makes his outburst seem foolish. He’d expected admonishment, even anger, if someone ever found out; however, Kovachev seems deeply disinterested in moralizing to Viktor, in convincing him that he ought to be ashamed. He’s found the letters and wants to know more, that’s all.

Viktor takes a deep breath before answering. 

“No one knows.” 

“I hope you’re right about that,” Kovachev says. “Sit down, will you?”

Viktor does, and Kovachev smiles all the wider. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do, you and I,” he says. “We’re going to burn these, that’s easy enough...but what we need to do is procure the--ah--the_ pair _ for each of these letters. Burn those as well. Have your friend Gavrail sign a few papers...and then we promise each other to not let things get out of hand again. Yes?”

Viktor knows that Gavrail will take one look at Kovachev and his papers and never speak to Viktor again...

He nods, crushing the bottle cap against the table with his thumb. 

* * *

**1995**

“You’ll have to meet her, she’s wonderful…” Viktor beams from ear to ear as he looks between his mother and father. He’s missed them more than ever this year, especially in the past few months. His whole life, he’s felt a distance between himself and his parents, a sense that he can never give them what they really want.

Except now that he’s met Hermione, maybe he can. 

“Kovachev was pleased…” Mother says. “Though those articles...about her and Harry Potter--”

“--that was unfortunate,” Father adds.

“No, that’s nothing to worry about!” Viktor says, undeterred by their concerns. “I spoke with Harry, and he said the newspapers were lying--”

“--and he’ll tell the papers?” Father interrupts. “Have them correct it?”

“I don’t know...I didn’t mention it,” Viktor says, baffled that his parents are missing the main point of the matter. “Kovachev said to ask him if it was true, and I did. They’re only friends.”

“And you told Kovachev this?” Father says, grinning at Viktor’s bemused nod. “Then he’ll have it corrected, I’m sure.”

“And you’re fond of the girl?” Mother asks. 

“Of course I am!” Viktor says, grateful that his mother has brought them back around to what really matters. “I didn’t think I could feel that way, but after the second task, I thought...well, that doesn’t happen with just anyone, does it? That means something?”

Father frowns. “What means something?”

“She was what I’d miss most!”

His parents exchange a look that cuts through Viktor’s enthusiasm.

“But you know that was all arranged, don’t you?” Father asks, not quite meeting Viktor’s eye. “The school sent us a note asking who we could spare, and of course we asked--”

“--Kovachev,” Viktor interrupts brusquely. Of course they had. He should have known, the whole time...he’s so stupid about these things, so thoughtless…

“You should have told me that,” he growls, though he’s more angry with himself than them. He knows what he is. He knows what his prospects are. It isn’t anyone else’s fault that he wanted something else to be true so badly that he’d tossed out all his sense. 

“Well, darling, we thought you’d know,” Mother says, placing a hand on his arm. “I mean, you’re not...you’ve always said that...”

She catches his eye and goes silent. Viktor suddenly wants nothing more than for the entire tournament to be over and done with. 

“I have to go and practice.” 

* * *

**2002**

“Who was that man who just left?” Kovachev growls as the tent flap closes behind him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Viktor says, sitting half dressed on the edge of his bed. If Kovachev came when Viktor asked and not ten minutes early, he’d have missed American Keeper Gregory Nolan entirely, which would have been more convenient all around.

But Viktor doesn’t much care about Kovachev’s blustering. 

“Doesn’t matter--?” Kovachev swells. “Now, listen here...we have a system! And what happens if we don’t follow the system?”

Viktor shrugs. “I have work to do—” 

“—oh, do you?” Kovachev laughs. “Because it seems to me you’ve been getting plenty of exercise right here. Do you have any idea what a wretched idea it is to do that here? Now? All eyes are on you, and people are rooting against you!”

Viktor pulls his shirt back on, wondering if he should tell Kovachev now, or give him one final minute of fussing. 

“You always say that.” 

“Because it’s always true!” Kovachev steps forward so that he looms over Viktor’s seated figure. “You are great, Viktor. And people want great things to fail. They need them to fail, so they can feel content with their own mediocrity. Don’t give them that chance.”

Viktor nods, then smiles, then waits three seconds. 

“I’m retiring after the final.” 

Kovachev swallows. “What?”

“I’m not doing this again,” Viktor says, reaching over the end of the bed for his boots. 

“You’re so confident you’ll win, are you?” Kovachev says, stepping back as Viktor stretches out his foot to tie his left boot. 

“I don’t care much anymore,” Viktor replies, turning his foot in his shoe as he tightens the laces. “I’m tired of this.”

Kovachev almost lets him get through the right foot before speaking. 

“And what about your team, hm?” he says. “You’re going to rob them of the best Seeker in the world because you’re bored?” 

Viktor smiles up at Kovachev. It was never his fault. Not really. He was a hired hand, nothing more. What did it matter to him what Viktor did or said? 

No, it had been his parents. The Bulgarian manager. Probably the ICWQC as well. 

They all wanted Viktor’s undying commitment, his talents, his money. 

Just not him. 

“That’s what I said,” he replies. 

“You’re upset, that’s all,” Kovachev says. “Nervous, about the final.”

Viktor shakes his head. “I’m not nervous. You are.”

There will never be another Seeker like him, and they all know it. 

What they don’t know--what Viktor will have to teach them--is that his singularity and strength never just existed on the Quidditch pitch. He can take it wherever he goes. 

He hopes he wins the final for Bulgaria; his dreams of winning the World Cup haven’t faded. But to pursue a singular goal so miserably, when there are so many other wonderful dreams that might be within reach? 

“I’ve made my decision,” Viktor says. “I’ve already sent in my paperwork to the ICWQC.”

Kovachev stammers. “But--”

“It’s finished,” Viktor says with a shrug. “You can go.”

* * *

**2007**

When he was young, everyone had made it seem as if one small slip-up would call the whole world’s attention to Viktor. The secret would be out, his career ruined, all by one ill-advised comment or stolen kiss caught on camera. 

However, it’s been five years since Viktor has stopped lying to protect other people’s investments, and he still isn’t fully “out.”

When he spoke at the Seeking Equality event in 2004, he thought for sure the press would pick up the hint. Some of the tabloids speculated for a week or so, but another drama piqued their interest, and the subject died. 

He’d been to every game at the 2006 World Cup, hand in hand with Zlatko. Again, some publications insinuated, implied, even questioned…but no one simply asked him. As if the question itself was too vulgar. 

He’d have told them the truth: he was in love, he was going to be married. But no one thought it appropriate to ask. Far from finding it considerate, Viktor finds it insulting. People gave no thought to discretion when they’d thought he was dating a girl. But the slightest possibility that he’s seeing a man veils the whole subject in ghastly privacy, and Viktor despises it. 

He doesn’t want a cover story, he doesn’t want to kiss Zlatko in the streets every day until someone gets the point. He just wants to be asked who is making him so happy…just like everyone else is asked. 

He doesn’t want to do a coming out interview, but he knows that’s the only way to finish the thing once and for all. And the only person he trusts to do it is Ginny Potter. She and Harry have been powerful friends to have, and good ones. They are the sort of people he wishes he’d always known. 

Still, he fidgets on the Potters’ couch while Ginny wrangles James into a nap. Zlatko clasps one of Viktor’s hands in his own and kisses it. 

“You will be happier, after this,” he says. 

Viktor nods, though it isn’t him he’s worried about. He still isn’t sure if Zlatko understands what it will mean for both of them, when the story hits. But Zlatko–a level-headed professor who specializes in the theory of magic as a manifestation of emotions–insists that he does, and Viktor has to trust him enough to believe that’s true. 

He’s spent years thinking that love meant being swept away…and that’s part of it, sometimes. 

But this is part of it too, he thinks. Sitting and trusting and being afraid, and that all being alright, as long as the other person is there. 

It’s nicer than he’s ever dared to hope for.

* * *

**2012 **

_“Tate!”_ The carrying whisper coming from the doorway brings a smile to Viktor’s face. He turns in his chair to face Zora, who is standing in her nightgown. 

“Are you still busy?” she asks, shyly eyeing the representative for the Bulgarian International Team sitting across from Viktor. 

Viktor beckons her over to his chair. 

“You’re meant to be sleeping,” he says, brushing her dark hair back behind her ears. 

The representative clears his throat. “This is your--ah--your--”

“My daughter,” Viktor says coldly. Zora reaps the rewards of the representative’s stammering: Viktor pulls her onto his lap before she has a chance to act out any of her rehearsed excuses for why she isn’t in bed. 

“Yes, well...anyway... I have approval to pay you twice what you were making before as Seeker--”

“--I want the money to go to my foundations,” Viktor says, passing Zora a piece of taffy (“just one” he whispers). 

The representative blinks. “Of course, it’s your money--”

“--and you’ll put their information in your programs,” Viktor says. “All of them, every game.”

The representative scribbles something down furiously. “I’m sure we can manage that. If you’ll provide us a list.”

“It’s in the paperwork I gave you,” Viktor says. “The last thing--and then we will wrap this up, if you don’t mind, Mr. Popov, I have to put my daughter to bed--”

“--of course.” 

“I want it in writing that the Bulgarian Team and the ICWQC will not make explicit or implicit moves to hide my family or what I do with my time when I’m not playing Quidditch.”

“That seems vague--”

“It isn’t,” Viktor says, holding Zora tighter in his arms. “And I ask it in good faith. I want to play for Bulgaria. I want to win the World Cup before I die. I want my daughter to see it, and my husband. But I won’t go back in hiding to do it.”

“No one is asking you to.”

“Good,” Viktor says, unbothered by the hesitation in Popov’s eye. They need him to win, and they’ll give him what he asks for. “Then here’s what we’ll do: you put that in writing, put it all in the contract...I’ll read it over with my people, and if we come to an agreement...we have a deal for 2014. That’s what you want, yes?”

“It is,” Popov says, closing his notebook. “You’re still the greatest player the game has ever seen. That you’re even considering coming back, well, it’s...remarkable. You’re remarkable.”

Viktor isn’t frightened anymore by the weight of such words.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is a sort of *I want it to be that deep* play on the song "Me!" by Taylor Swift.


End file.
